


when the spark began to give

by handmepleaseacity



Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types, History Boys - Bennett
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1537970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handmepleaseacity/pseuds/handmepleaseacity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scripps had nothing against London, nothing against the grey mornings when his alarm clock failed to wake him up and fog tried to swallow him whole as he dashed toward the nearby underground station. All in all, he was fairly pleased with the course his life had decided to take. And yet he didn't stop to think twice when Dakin sent him a telegraph and told him to pack his bags, book a boat ticket and start a new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when the spark began to give

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Paris by Patrick Wolf. As always, only mistakes are my own.

Scripps casts one last glance at the sky before entering into the familiar warmth of his favourite café. He’s sure it will start raining any second now; the clouds have gotten only darker as the day has proceeded, hanging low and overshadowing the City of Light. Scripps doesn’t mind rain, not really, but he would rather tear out his fingernails one by one than ruin his brand-new shoes.

And even if Scripps doesn't mind the rain, he is more than ready to collapse into a chair after wandering a better half of the day around the Jardins du Luxembourg. A refreshing cup of coffee (maybe with a tiny drop of something stronger, the evening is getting a bit chilly) would be most welcome, too.

He finds his regular table empty, almost as if it were waiting for his arrival. The table isn't the one in the corner because that would be too predictable; Scripps enjoys sitting near the door, with wide view out of window, so that he can pay attention to people coming and going, his passion for observation never satisfied. After the smiling waiter has taken his order, Scripps takes out his notebook, leans back in his chair and rests the tip of the pen on the surface of the delicate paper. There's always something magical about this moment, about the feeling he gets right before turning his thoughts into words. It is similar to that of drawing the final breath before pressing piano keys, breaking the silence into music. It is something he can't quite explain.

And surely this city is magical, too.

Travelling to Paris had been a whim. Scripps had nothing against London, nothing against his life there, nothing against the grey Monday mornings when his alarm clock failed to wake him up and fog tried to swallow him whole as he dashed toward the nearby underground station and took the train to Fleet Street. He had been content enough in his job at the evening newspaper: he knew all too well he was a brilliant journalist. He was certain his boss would have liked to keep him on his post, would have liked to watch Scripps working for his time and being rewarded a golden-layered watch after 25 or so years. His workmates were pleasant, too; most of them were respectable family men, doing their nine to five job carefully and with strict confidence. Scripps didn't know them well, hadn’t befriended any of them. They were all a few years older than Scripps and had their own circles, and that was exactly how Scripps liked it. They minded their own business.

At Oxford Scripps had been rather daring – but well, if he had learned something while working in the papers, it was that some stories were best left untold. He likes to think he was happy at university, and yet, at the same time he was looking forward to the future, the graduation, the beginning of his life. After he had gotten his degree he had found out that it was all been in vain: he got a semi dull second, a semi dull job at The Guardian, and that was all there was, really. Life went on. When watching his friends Scripps couldn't help feeling slightly left out, but then again, he was a bit different, wasn't he? He was probably destined to lead a semi dull life, and maybe everything went just like it was meant to go.

But despite his faith, Scripps isn’t the one to easily surrender to higher meanings and a boring destiny, not if he can prevent it, and the morning Dakin sent him a telegraph from the other side of the canal he hadn’t hesitated for a second. Scripps hadn’t stopped to think twice before packing his bags and booking boat tickets when Dakin had told him about moving to Paris and starting a new life. It was Scripps' chance to finally start a life, and he had planned everything perfectly. He was going to write himself a new beginning, a new story with an ending that would surprise absolutely everyone, himself not excepted. Sitting on the deck of the boat he had composed a list of important things to remember. The list mostly consisted of rules about thinking less and doing more, because one day he was going to be famous and people were going to quote him and discuss his adventures with friends and there had to be some exciting bits as well as thoughtful ones. He had promised himself he would write everything worthwhile down.

The rules written to the heading of his notebook make him smile, now. It has been two weeks, and even though he has tried very hard to find excitement – he has gone out every night, frequented more bars and cafés than he can count, stroke conversations with strangers – nothing much has happened. His most interesting stories have to do with buying croissants from the bakery around the corner from his flat and listening to the old wife working there telling him everything about her past sweethearts. And that is not his story, it is hers, and even though Scripps has written it down it is not his to tell to anyone, except maybe to acquaintances in the wee hours of morning when the drink has slowed his brain and slurred his speech. He needs to have a story of his own.

He’s looking forward to tonight, because tonight he’s meeting Dakin, and if there ever were a person to share an adventure with, it is Dakin. He had been ridiculously popular in Oxford – people had quite literally fallen to his feet – and frankly Scripps was certain everyone thought him far too uninteresting to be Dakin’s best friend, but they had known each other since grammar school, so he had had an advantage. But the point was that whenever something eventful was taking place, Dakin could not be far away. He would always be the one to throw thunderous parties in his rooms in the middle of finals week (which would most often end up with someone swimming in the fountain at four in the morning); he would find a girl, rent a motorcycle and drive her to the country to have a picnic (and something else that all the boys would whisper about for two weeks after); he always got invited to all sorts of fancy events that other could only dream of (and chat about later – in their stories Dakin was always the magical friend – or friend of a friend - to whom all these great things happened, and Dakin himself would have never even heard of third of the people telling these stories). Scripps had no idea when Dakin had had time to actually attend classes, and the most incredible thing was that he always passed his courses with top marks. Dakin was one of those lucky bastards that seemed to succeed in everything without doing much anything; he had looks, wit, money, the most glamorous girls, and always an unbelievable story to tell. And Dakin himself was more aware of all that than was necessary.

Scripps feels a smirk ghosting at the corner of his lips. Dakin could be a true pain in the arse, but Scripps was endlessly glad to know him. He takes a look at his watch and decided it’s time to go, asks for the check, leaves a generous tip for the waiter and walks out to the grey drizzle of Paris.

\---

It seemed that in Parisian bars things were like in an English village; everyone knew everyone. Old school mates, ex-lovers, chaps from same battalions were all smooching each other’s cheeks with fake enthusiasm that Scripps hadn’t witnessed anywhere else, not even at his parents’ Christmas cocktail parties. Scripps, of course, knows no one. After starting to get bored of not hearing his own thoughts because of the loud music and idly chatting strangers, Scripps finally sees Dakin entering the bar. He’s grinning widely, holding a cigarette between his gracious fingers, keeping his other hand in his trouser pocket. Scripps can see him already checking up both the dancers and other men’s dates, and the glances are most often returned with a bright smile. Annoying as Dakin sometimes is, Scripps is glad to see him.

It is only a little after that Scripps notices someone lurking at the edge of Dakin’s enormous ego. Scripps resists the urge to draw out his notebook and scribble down a quick description of him right away. He definitely isn’t the type that Dakin usually has for company – not one of those young, curvy girls who try to make themselves look older by painting their faces a bit too brightly. The young man (or perhaps he is more of a boy than he is a man) whom Dakin has brought with him is something else entirely. He has a tall, lean frame, and he is wearing a well-fitted and neatly pressed navy suit, which Scripps suspects to be expensive. Even though he looks like something out of a etiquette guide for grammar school boys, he's moving in a manner so far from graceful that it is almost funny. From the way he holds himself Scripps can deduce that he doesn’t frequent these kind of places very often. The amount of people seems to make him nervous, and he flails his limbs in all possible and some impossible directions in order to avoid bumping into other people as best as he can, stumbles at least three times and even stops to apologise to everyone he accidentally bumps into.

Luckily for him he's walking in the wake of Dakin, because Dakin is the sort of person to whom most people give way automatically. They have soon fought their way through the crowd, Dakin clearing the way and his shadow following him dutifully.

“Scripps!” Dakin shouts cheerfully as they reach his table. After stumping his cigarette he slaps Scripps' back with much more force than he probably intends (or, as Scripps quickly rearranges in his mind, with exactly as much force as he intends. Dakin has the habit of slapping people's backs with the kind of force that could easily knock a person off their feet or at least false teeth out of their mouths).

“Good to see you, you old swine! How’s London?” Dakin grins. Scripps doesn’t want to get into an argument over the real identities of old swines.

“Still standing, I presume,” Scripps answers, and turns then towards Dakin’s unusual accompaniment. On closer scrutiny Scripps pays attention to ten different shades of soft brown in his short-cut hair, the slightly melancholic arch of his eyebrows, the way his lower lip seems to have a natural, full-time pout. It is only after he has spent a fair amount of time looking the boy up and down that he notices the boy is watching him, too, with a curious expression on his face, and trying to catch Scripps’ eye.

“Don’t worry,” Dakin laughs, turning towards the boy as well. “Scripps in probably taking mental notes.”

The boy seems confused, which Dakin obviously ignores.

“Oh yes,” he says instead, in a tone that antacids a notification, turning once again to Scripps. “This one here is Posner.”

“David,” the boy introduces himself simultaneously. The handshake he gives Scripps is polite but brief, his long fingers hardly touching the back of Scripps’ hand.

“Posner,” Dakin repeats. “Had the fortune to bump into me a few weeks previously. And now he could get us drinks.” In Scripps opinion Posner’s smile is way too bright to get along with Dakin’s smug impoliteness.

“Of course!” Posner answers cheerfully. “The usual for you, Dakin?” He then turns to Scripps. “And what would you like to drink, Mr…?”

“Scripps, but forget Mr,” Scripps smiles, hoping to sound friendly. Then again, the boy is used to Dakin, so it probably can’t be that hard. “I’d like a gin and tonic, thank you.”

With a quick nod the boy is gone. Scripps doesn’t take his eyes off Posner’s back until he disappears into the dancing crowd and cannot help feeling sorry for him.

“So, you finally got yourself a puppy, then?” Scripps asks scornfully, still looking at the spinning mixture of colour and laughter. Dakin takes a deep breath.

“Look, I know how terrible this may seem, but I assure you, it’s not what you think.”

Scripps crosses his arms over his chest. “Go ahead and surprise me.”

Dakin turns his lips towards an apologetic smile. “Now, Scripps, I know you’re not stupid.”

Scripps fixes an unimpressed look at him and says nothing.

“The thing is,” Dakin begins slowly. “The thing is, he thinks he’s in love with me.”

When Dakin sees Scripps eyebrows rising in question, he hurries to continue. “He’s not, not really. He just fancies himself being in love with me. I understand, because obviously, with my god looks, and my razor-sharp wit and my hilarious jokes…” His flirty smile is back, but Scripps can see it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and his light tone is gone.  
“I saved his life,” Dakin finally blurts out.

“I’m all ears,” Scripps prompts him.

“It was just about three weeks ago. I was coming home from Café Voltaire, that place I told you about, the one with that cute waitress? Well, anyway, I was on my way home when I decided to have a little stroll on the side of the Seine. And there he was.”

Dakin clears his throat.

“He was just standing there, on the riverbank. Just standing there, staring at the black water below. Even I could tell he was not well. The way he stood too close to the edge, you know? And when I got closer I could see how determined he looked.”

Scripps can feel the temperature in the room dropping. Suddenly he is very glad of the long queues at the bar. Now he understands why Dakin sent the boy away so quickly.

“It was quite ugly, as you can imagine. Or maybe you can’t, I certainly couldn’t have, I have never seen anything like that,” Dakin’s voice is saying from what feels like the other side of the universe.

“He tried to kill himself,” Scripps whispers. It is more of a statement than a question, and he isn’t even sure if Dakin can hear him over the boisterous dance music.

“He just kept begging me to let him go, screamed something about nothing making sense and nothing mattering anymore. I took him home, of course, and gave him a huge glass of brandy, and tugged him in my bed. That kind of thing,” Dakin explains.

“And now you say he’s in love with you”, Scripps interrupts him.

Dakin nods firmly. “Or so he thinks. I figure I was the first person to have cared about him for a very long time.”

They look at each other in a silence that could have lasted for a week. Eventually Dakin shakes his head.

“You know as well as I do that I’m not good for him. He’s been following me around these three weeks like a silly puppy, just like you said. Apparently I’m the only thing he can cling onto, but this story has no happy ending. One of these days he’s going to see the light and the fact that I’m going to break his heart one way or another and it’s all going to be far from pretty. And I’m at my wits end.”

Dakin looks at Scripps almost pleadingly. Scripps knows Dakin too well for his own good, knows what a flashy, often falsely attractive self-centred over-ambiguous twat he is, and how he most often only thinks of himself. But he also knows the other, rarer side of Dakin; the loyal, trustworthy friend who will stick with you no matter what. And Scripps knows what Dakin wants him to say.

“So, you brought him here so that I could befriend him and get him off your back,” Scripps concludes.

He can sense that under his smug cover Dakin is relieved. “Don’t be mad at me, Scripps, you know you’re my best friend,” Dakin says, striving for casual. “And I know what you are like, with your goodness and your patience and your faith… A saint, that’s what you are.” He shakes his head again. “Just help him to his feet. I’m not the person for that job but I know you’ll do stupendously.”

Scripps feels something very close to a laughter building up in his chest. “Don’t try to compliment me into accepting.” He sighs. “I’ll help him for his own sake, not for yours.”

Dakin becomes his light-hearted self in a matter of seconds. “Scripps, you soft sap, I was certain you’d do it. To be honest, I almost made a bet on it. With Posner.” His work here is obviously done, so he leans back and concentrates once more in checking up every girl in the restaurant. Scripps feels an involuntary smile crawl up his cheeks. There are some things that never change.

Not a moment too early they can see the agile form of Posner emerge from the crowd, once again carefully avoiding the impact with the wild crowd swaying to jazz that’s almost too loud to be comfortable to ears, trying hard not to spill the drinks or get a hit to his lower inner organs. When he gets closer Scripps can see that he’s carrying only two drinks, which leaves nothing to Posner himself. Whether that’s due to the lack of money or an extra hand, Scripps can’t tell. The boy looks happy to see him (or, more likely, to see Dakin, Scripps thinks), and when he sits down he pushes the second glass towards Scripps.

“It was David, wasn’t it?” Scripps asks, hoping his slightly falsely cheerful voice won’t betray him. Posner nods. “I’m sorry to have bothered you at all, but I don’t much feel like drinking this after all, and I can see you didn't get anything for yourself. Would you mind terribly if I asked you to adopt this on my behalf?” he finishes flatly, feeling like a fool.

Posner raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say a word, just reaches for the glass he has offered Scripps only a few seconds previously. Dakin flashes an approving smile and turns to Posner.

“While you were away I had time to tell Scripps here quite a lot about you, but I really haven’t got time to tell you anything about him.”

“I’m not sure if that’s all that important”, Scripps hurries to interrupt. “As I happen to be possibly the most boring person on this planet.”

“And that is the exact opposite of the truth”, Dakin smiles and pats Scripps’ on shoulder. “Well, at least to some extent.”

Scripps eyes him suspiciously.

“Then again, maybe it is the truth”, Dakin laughs. “You see, Posner, he claims to be a writer…”

“An aspiring writer”, Scripps corrects him.

“…But what he really does is, he just keeps writing down everything he sees. Absolutely everything. And what with all the observing and writing, he often forgets that he has his own life to live.” Scripps can feel the colour rising to his cheeks. “We were together at Oxford, and whenever we’d take part to the most exquisite little gatherings he would just sit in the corner, watch the rest of us having a blast and keep writing to that tiny notebook of his. Talk about commitment.”

“Oh!” Posner exclaims joyfully. “May I inquire what you have written? Could I possibly have read something by you?”

Scripps pays attention to the way Posner seems genuinely interested, unlike almost everyone he has ever met. He wonders briefly whether there’s anything Posner wouldn’t be genuine about.

“Certainly,” Scripps nods. “If you’ve ever opened The Guardian. Well, if you’ve opened it during past two years.”

“You’re a journalist?”

“At least I used to be. I’ve abandoned my post only recently, and now I’m just trying to come up with a brilliant plot for my first actual novel.”

Posner’s smile is encouraging. “And how far have you gotten?”

“Well,” Scripps says, “I only know that it is going to be a masterpiece.”

Posner bursts into delightful laughter, and Scripps feels his cheeks getting warmer. Posner could, of course, only pretend to be polite, but something tells Scripps that Posner is against pretence on principle.

“So, what is your life story like, then?” he changes the subject.

Posner shrugs. “Nothing exciting, I’m afraid. Born and raised in Yorkshire, sent to Cambridge to evolve into something higher and more sophisticated. Needless to say I failed pathetically.” He smirks so that Scripps can see this is not about self-loathing but merely good-humoured self-irony.

“Which subject?” he asks.

“History”, Posner answers. “Always had a thing for the past, I'm afraid.”

“Dakin and me too, but surely Dakin has mentioned that already,” Scripps keeps chatting. “Actually, we had some friends from grammar school who went to Cambridge for history, you might even know them, Timms and Lockwood? When did you graduate?” he asks, mostly because he wants to know how old Posner is exactly. If he has been to University he cannot be more than three years of Scripps’ junior, but he hardly looks more than twenty years of age. Under the table Dakin kicks his calf.

“I… I never actually graduated. But that’s quite another story.” Posner answers, finishes his drink with one gulp, ends up coughing and doesn’t meet Scripps’ eye. Another story, Scripps thinks, that he would like to hear, maybe, someday. But not now, because obviously Posner’s not ready to discuss it and Scripps would really like to get a drink. Or possibly three.

\---

After Dakin has gone to chase a “gorgeous red-head”, as he himself had put it, Scripps feels it’s his obligation to walk Posner home. But what he also starts to feel is that maybe it isn’t his responsibility but in fact his privilege. They are both more than slightly tipsy, humming together one of the catchy songs that they had heard about four times during the evening and would do their best to forget in the course of following week. Every once in a while one of them starts to recite a piece of poetry which the other one then finishes, after which they both giggle uncontrollably. “No,” Scripps finds himself thinking when they are, according to Posner, just one block away from his flat, and Posner has leaned on Scripps for support after one of their spasm of giggles, trying to stop himself from doubling over, and Scripps’ ribs hurt and it’s getting harder to breathe, and it’s simply easy and cosy and fun. “Not an obligation at all.”

When they have finally reached Posner’s front door and he has managed to find his keys, Posner draws his mouth into firm line. “Thank you,” he says shortly.  
“For what?” Scripps asks, even though he knows the answer.

Posner’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “For being nice to me.” He looks away as he clears his throat. “I know why you are doing this, I know Dakin told me how we met as soon as he got the chance, and I don’t mind, I really don’t. I’m just saying that you don’t have to pretend to be anything.”

“You are right,” Scripps says, and Posner smiles the hollow smile Scripps has seen way too many times already. “I don’t have to pretend. I’m all about honesty, me. I’m not being friendly because I pity you, I’m being friendly because I like you.”

Posner’s eyes widen by surprise, and Scripps cannot remember ever meeting anyone so open about everything he feels. He doesn’t like the idea of someone taking advantage of his openness and using it against him, but that is, he imagines, what has happened to Posner way too many times.

“Well, at first, of course, I didn’t know what you were like and was friendly because Dakin asked me to, and because I generally like to be nice to people I meet,” Scripps admits, not taking his eyes off Posner’s. “But I have now spent three hours in your company and I would like to see you again. Get to know you better. I would very much like to become your friend. If that’s agreeable.”

Posner’s smile nearly cracks his face in two. “Sure,” he says. Dakin was right, thinks Scripps, it is sadly obvious how long time it has been since anyone has cared about Posner. But that was changing now.

“You know where to find me,” Posner says, and before Scripps can say anything else he has opened the door and stepped in, leaving Scripps on his doormat, terrifyingly excited of what is going to be. He congratulates himself for being, once again, correct; even though he sometimes hates to admit it, when something eventful takes place, it is mostly thanks to Dakin.

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't throw anything too sharp at me! I don't know what I'm doing either.


End file.
